


A Hard Hit and A Battered Heart

by jesseofthenorth



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, ccbingo, concussion, some cussing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth/pseuds/jesseofthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barton takes one too many shot's to the head. </p><p>Coulson can't claim the same... he might still be a little screwed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Hit and A Battered Heart

Once again the Avengers won the fight and saved the day, but not without a price. Again. Damned killer robots.

Today the price was an unconscious Clint Barton being wheeled away to find the extent of any damage he may have sustained after being thrown head first into a cinder block wall. The Avengers waited in the chairs outside Medical, waiting to see if their teammate was okay, none making a move to leave.

No one said it out loud, but the worry was always that one day it would be serious. Despite being thoroughly human Clint Barton never failed to throw himself into the middle of whatever fight they found. It sent him to medical a distressing number of times. Today was one of the worst. Hawkeye was gray and unmoving when found in a bloody and battered heap beside a collapsed wall. Barton had not regained consciousness since.

So they sat and waited for word.

Phil Coulson came, after a few minutes, from the direction the medial staff had taken Hawkeye. He told them in clipped tones that Clint had a room and had regained consciousness. No skull fracture, just a really nasty concussion. The collective sigh of relief among his team mates was palpable.

“What do we need to do for him?” Tony asked surprising himself a little. Only not really, Tony might be self absorbed but he considered Hawkeye a friend, and Tony cared a lot about his friends. He would do what ever needed was needed to look out for them.

“I gather from the doctor that Barton is conscious but he's a bit out of it. I think it would be best to give him the night and see how he's doing in the morning.”

Each team member nodded their assent, reluctantly. They understood the urge to recuperate without an audience, save what little dignity a person could. They'd all had moments they didn't want anyone to witness. Besides they knew Coulson wouldn't suggest it if Hawkeye was seriously injured.

No one was really surprised when Coulson turned on his heel, carrying his laptop and an armful of folders back the way he'd come. It was a given that he would be the one to watch over Barton. It was never a question, this was Coulson's territory.

 

Phil stood in the doorway and assessed the mess his sniper had made of himself this time, bandages on both arms, face bruised and battered. It was a familiar state to find him in and caused a pinch somewhere in the middle of Phil's chest. At least it wasn't serious this time.

The doctor said Barton was thoroughly concussed, slightly confused and displaying emotional outbursts. The staff wanted to keep a careful eye on him but Barton told them all to fuck off, very loudly and then apparently threw up. It fell to Agent Coulson, Avengers Wrangler, to keep him under some sort of control. Apparently he was one of the few who could.

Coulson really hoped the 'emotional outbursts' part of this equation didn’t mean Hawkeye was going to be more antagonistic than usual, or violent. The staff would resort to restraints if absolutely necessary, and Coulson knew how much Clint hated being restrained, even for his own good. It was bound to make an unpleasant situation worse.

They all agreed to hold off doing anything, if Coulson could keep Hawkeye calm and in the damned bed.

So Phil stood in the doorway quietly and watched, trying to decide how to handle this. Barton looked alright at first glance. Then Coulson looked more closely.

Phil wasn't really sure what he expected to see, but it sure as hell wasn't the shine of tears at the corners of Barton's stubbornly closed eyes. Coulson could feel himself doing a double-take. Looking away, shaking his head a little and looking back, expecting it to be an optical illusion. No way was the toughest, most belligerent, stubborn guy he'd ever worked with laying in a hospital bed … well. Crying.

Coulson could hear the doctors voice in the back of his head _” displaying emotional outbursts”_.  
 _This_ was not Phil's first thought when he'd heard that.

Barton's eyes were squeezed shut, a steady flow of tears leaking out the corners, his lower lip gripped steadfastly by his teeth, presumably trying to keep more than tears in.

Well shit. No wonder Barton chased everyone out, refused to see the other Avengers, yelled and swore and raised hell, until everyone left him alone and waited for Coulson to show. Clint wouldn't want anyone to see him like this.

Coulson turned quickly away, intent on hunting down that damned doctor and finding out what the hell was really going on.

He was back 10 minutes later with a handful of literature and an expanded understanding of concussion symptoms. You learn something new everyday. Or so he'dheard.

Barton was still in bed, face still covered in tears. This time he had a death grip on an emesis pan and the room smelled of vomit.

Phil squared his shoulders and walked into the room, all matter-of-fact professionalism, as if Clint Barton crying his eyes out was just another day on the job.

It really, _really_ wasn't.

Barton turned his head at the sound of Coulson pulling a chair up to his bedside.

“Oh fuck! Could you just piss off and let me die of humiliation by myself? _For-fucks-sake_!”

Coulson didn't bat an eyelash, just came in as if he owned the place. Years of working for Fury some of the scariest people on the planet forced Phil to cultivate the ability to freak out with a completely blank face. In retrospect Phil was glad, Barton's condition was kind of freaking _him_ out a little. One of them losing their shit at a a time was more than enough.

“Sorry Barton. No can do. Doctors orders.” Coulson responded putting on his most bored tone of voice, despite the state Clint was in. The puking was sort of expected, that was par for the course with a concussion. The crying though, not so much.

“You done with that?” Phil asked meaning the emesis pan.

Barton glared at him for a couple of seconds before nodding, and Phil gently took it from his hands. Barton's breath hitched a little and he made a strangled kind of noise and turned away giving Coulson his back.

Phil let him, just took the pan into the bathroom and rinsed it out. He really hoped they weren't going to need it a lot.

Clint was still turned away when he stepped out of the bathroom so Phil sat down and opened his lap top. At least he could do paperwork (or pretend to).

Coulson typed up his notes and started filling out mission reports, keeping an eye on his charge in case he tried to make a break for it.

After a few minutes the strangled noises tapered off and Barton's shoulders stopped shuddering. Phil kept typing and waiting. Barton rolled onto his his back and Coulson stopped typing taking in the disheveled state Clint was in. There was no pretense in Phil's observation. Coulson knew Clint well enough to know he would prefer Phil be direct.

“Better?”

Clint took a moment to answer “Not really,” and scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn't meet Coulson's gaze, clearly embarrassed.

Barton sat up carefully and reached for the water glass at his bed side, but his aim was off. He missed the glass almost entirely, the plastic tumbler toppled away and hit the floor. Barton sat there gaping at it for second before his face crumpled and the tears started up again.

“Fuck!”

He slapped a hand over his face “What the fuck is wrong with me?” he gasped miserably and turned away.

Coulson suppressed a sigh, got to his feet, and retrieved the water glass. He stood looking down at Barton, who looked like he was trying disappear into the bedding or something. Arm slung over his eyes trying to hide, misery and humiliation apparent in every tense line of his body, and really that was _not_ acceptable. Barton had nothing to be embarrassed about.

“It's the concussion.” Phil said reaching for the water glass.

“What?” Barton wheezed, apparently crying behind his arm.

“The crying.” Direct approach right? “It's a symptom of the concussion. The doctor gave me some literature.”

Barton turned his head a little looking at Phil out from under his forearm Phil held out the glass of ice water and kept his expression perfectly bland and neutral, despite the fact that Barton _really_ looked like hell, his face splotchy and red, eyes swollen and sore looking.

“It should only last a little while.” Phil told him and offered the glass.

Barton sat up still not making eye contact. He emptied the water in two long swallows and held out the glass for a refill. Coulson saw a tremor in Clint's hand and reached out to steady it while he poured. Barton downed the second glass just as fast but never once looked directly at Coulson.

“How long is a little while?”

“A few hours. Maybe a day or two. It's hard to predict.” Phil tried to keep any sympathy he might feel out of his voice. Clint wouldn't thank him for anything even remotely approaching pity. Clint Barton was a good guy but he had kind of a burr up his ass about people feeling sorry for him.

“Shit.” Clint choked out and turned away again, fresh tears at the corners of his eyes.

The wobble in Barton's voice made something unpleasant twist in Phil's gut. Clint wasn't what you could really call a mellow guy but he wasn't overly emotional either. In fact at times it was almost impossible to tell _what_ he was thinking or feeling, every thing carefully hidden under a thick layer of snark and smart-assery. Phil couldn't ever remember actually seeing the guy sad. Tired, elated, pissed off, happy, laughing or even occasionally in a cold rage, but never sad. Not in all the time Coulson had known him.

Since it wasn't possible the guy was never unhappy, it could only mean sadness was something Clint preferred to keep entirely to himself. Anger was apparently a lot easier to express, more acceptable. There had been occasions when Coulson was certain even anger was a front for something else. For a guy who guarded himself so closely being completely laid open like this was probably killing him.

Coulson kind of wanted to pat him on the back and tell him it was okay. Not only would Barton probably not welcome the gesture, it was entirely possible some sort of violence _would_ be his response. Phil wasn't especially shocked at the impulse, but he did need to keep it to himself. So he went back to his reports and waited.

It took a little longer this time but eventually Barton got it together. Phil kept typing for a few minutes, just to see if it was going to stick. It seemed like it was.

Phil hadn't heard a sound from Clint for some time when an aide came in with lunch.

She set a covered tray down on the rolling table and asked Phil “Would you see if he can eat when he wakes up?”

Coulson nodded, distracted by trying to figure out if Barton was actually asleep or faking so he wouldn't have to deal with anyone else.

The woman left and Coulson spent a moment watching his charge, noting the steady rise and fall of respiration and relaxed facial features. It never failed to amaze Phil how vulnerable Clint looked like this, despite even asleep he was anything but.  It was a relief to see him sleeping despite the percieved vulnerability. Displays of emotion didn't bother Phil much but it saved Barton from more embarrassment, no matter how unwarranted. 

After a few moments Coulson deemed it safe to go hunt down a cup of coffee.

He'd spent enough time in medical to know exactly where he was going. The coffee in the vending machine was a mostly horrible instant “cappuccino” like substance but it had plenty of sugar and caffeine and at this point that was all Phil was looking for. That, a bag of potato chips and, wonder of wonders, a package of donuts that did not appear to be petrified, meant he was good to go for several hours.

Barton was still sleeping when Phil got back. Satisfied, Coulson settled in with his coffee, his half-assed meal and his perpetual backlog of files. Like so many other times, keeping busy while he waited for Clint to come back from one injury or another. He couldn't regret being the one who was here even if he regretted the reason for it.

 

Phil was neck deep into explaining, in a memo, again, the requisitions needs of the initiative, (the eggheads in finance never seem to get it) when he heard a gasp from the bed.

Coulson stopped typing and looked over. Clint looked to be still sleeping. His eyes were still closed, but his breathing had changed, gotten shallower and faster. Phil watched him a moment to be sure Clint was okay but instead of settling, it got worse. Clint's face twisted up in pain or some kind of distress and he started making these awful, hurt sounds.

It hit him what he was hearing, almost literally. It felt like a blow to the solar plexus. Clint was crying... in his sleep. Barton slept like shit as a matter of course, Phil knew, sometimes getting only a couple of hours a night. Phil had often been witness to him snapping awake after a couple of hours when they shared space during one op or another. Sleep was rarely the man's friend, but this. This was completely not okay. Coulson took a second to think 'hell no' before he called “Barton!” sharply hoping it would pull him out of it.

Clint's eyes snapped open at the sound and he sucked in a breath fast, only to have it rush back out in a bitten off sob. It sounded like it hurt.

Coulson didn’t think long about how it sounded. Clint didn't need sympathy, now (or any other time), he needed grounding, needed to be yanked out of whatever misery he'd found in his dreams.

Clint looked around panicked. What did he expect to see? What ever it was couldn't be good, his face twisted in fear. Clint's eyes landed on Coulson and and Phil could see the relief there for just a moment before embarrassment and tears crowded in and Barton turned away.

“Shit” Coulson said under his breath and he honestly had no idea what to do. Every decent thing about him wanted to help, but Phil had little doubt that any comfort would not be appreciated. Clint Barton was not a man who embraced his own weakness, even when there was no shame in it. Phil had often enough seen Clint fight against anything in himself that could be perceived as weakness.

The knowledge did little to mitigate Phil's first impulse, which was to reach out. Phil balled his hands into fists and waited, instead. His neatly manicured nails bit into the meat at the base of his thumb and the discomfort kept him from doing something that might embarrass one (or both) of them.

Nothing could make him go back to his computer though. He couldn't leave Clint to this, he had to at least keep watch, make sure it didn't get worse.

The gasps tapered off, again, just like the last two times and after a while Clint rolled back toward Phil, but still not meeting Coulson's gaze. Phil looked at that exhausted face and poured Clint a glass of water. It felt pretty useless.

Clint sat up carefully to drink it. 'Not feeling much better then,' Phil decided.

“Sorry” Clint told him and handed the empty glass back.

Phil couldn't help the slightly disbelieving laugh. “What the hell for?”

“This can't be a lot of fun for you.” Clint said looking down and away.

“Clint. You're the one with the concussion. And there's nothing to apologize for. None of this is your fault.” Phil wondered what Clint thought he'd done wrong here. Nothing about this situation warranted any guilt, at least not on Barton's part. It was just one of those things that happened to people who took hits to the head for a living.

Still. Phil felt the not entirely unfamiliar impulse to make things better somehow. He considered a reassuring pat on the shoulder and decided it probably wouldn't help much. Instead he went back to his typing and let Barton either get himself together or go back to sleep. After a few minutes Barton's breathing evened out and Coulson kept on typing. Sleep it was, then.

 

Eventually Phil's stomach started to protest the lack of proper fuel (and coffee). He checked, to be sure Barton was still out cold. Phil needed something a little more substantial than instant coffee, donuts and potato chips. Real coffee and a sandwich at least.

Phil headed for the cafeteria.

He didn't dawdle, just picked a couple of not horrible looking things to eat and the biggest coffee he could find. He considered eating there, but, even if he liked the cafeteria he didn't care much for the idea of Clint waking up miserable and alone. It was a thankfully short elevator ride.

As soon as he entered Barton's room Phil saw something was wrong, the bed was empty. He checked the number on the door to be sure it was the right room, even though he knew it was . Ever careful, Phil checked before entering.

Phil found a place to set his food and then spied a light behind the partially open bathroom door.

“Barton?' he called and approached. It was always best to let Barton know you were coming especially if he was injured.

Phil heard a distressed sound from the other side of the door and hesitated no more. He pushed open the door carefully and looked in. Barton was sitting on the cold floor, hunched in on himself and surprise, surprise... crying. None of the choked noises and single manly tear bullshit from early. This time he was really going at, the ugly scrunched-up snot-covered-face, sobbing.

He sounded like he was dying.

Not for the first time Coulson was out of his depth and couldn't immediately decide what to do. Phil genuinely cared about the guy and would have been more than happy to offer any sort of comfort. He just didn't think it would be welcomed. At all. That completely aside, there is no way Phil could, in good conscience leave anyone he knew, and liked, huddled on a cold bathroom floor sobbing into hospital issued sleepwear. If for no other reason then the fact that Phil's mother would smack him in the back of the head if she ever found out about it. Hard. You just didn't do that to a friend, never mind someone you genuinely cared for.

Phil tried to stifle a sigh. “Come on, Barton.” he said and reached for Clint's arm “Let's get you back to bed.”

Clint was clumsy and unstable but he moved willingly, which Coulson was grateful for, but Phil still ended up taking most of Barton's weight. Apparently it was hard to walk and sob your heart out at the same time. Phil wouldn't know. He's pretty sure if he ever felt that bad he would just curl up in a ball and stay that way until he died of humiliation. Especially if anyone saw him. Especially Barton. The thought didn't really help the situation much. He would love to spare Clint what ever misery he could but Phil couldn't leave him alone. If this went on much longer though, Phil was going to be having a conversation with Barton's doctor about options for sedation.

First things first, get him back into the bed and and get him calmed down. Both turned out to be easier said than done. Barton's legs gave out on him half way to the bed. Coulson didn't hesitate, just got a better hold and carried on.

Clint didn't really calm down, once they arrived, in fact of anything it got worse. Phil was getting worried. More worried.

“I think I should get your doctor.” Phil offered.

“No!” Clint said and made a grab for Phil's arm when he tried to move away.

“Shit! Please, Phil. I- Fuck!” Clint tried to wipe away the tears, clumsy from concussion and tiredness, his hand made a useless pass at his face.

Phil watched him try to rein it in, get himself in hand. It wasn't really working. Barton put a hand over his eyes and gripped his head, like giving his brain a squeeze was going to help. Phil was pretty sure something like that had started all this in the first place. He reached out and gently pulled Clint's had away.

“I'm sorry!” Barton told him again. “ I know this is a pain in your ass, Phil. I'm _sorry_! Just- please, can you not? No one else, please. You don't – need to stick around. Just- I don't want anyone to see me like this. This s'so fucking embarrassing! I think-.” he pauses and Phil could see him gathering his scattered thoughts “I think it will pass if I let it out.” he wiped his eyes and tried again “ S'what my mama used to say. Sometimes you just gotta let shit out.” he put his hand over his eyes and went back to crying.

Phil was feeling a little pole-axed; by the insight of that statement, by the fact that Barton shared _anything_ about his family, and the fact that Barton had actually asked him for something. Clint Barton mostly never asked for anything, least of all for himself.

What the hell was Phil gonna do, say no?

Barton was in no immediate danger. He was doing exactly what the Doctor suspected he was going to do. And he was asking to be left alone to do it. He was also giving Phil an out, telling Phil it's okay to leave, remove himself from an uncomfortable situation. 'Screw that,' Phil thought. He'd said he would be here and he was staying. Besides it was _Clint_.

Anyway, how much worse could it get?

He sat on the edge of the bed and put a his hand on Barton's back, unconsciously rubbing slow soothing circles there, just like Phil's mother had done for him when he was young and small and hurt.

Phil learned how much worse it could get when Clint Barton, trained killer, world class marksmen, tough guy and all round bad-ass collapsed against him and started sobbing into Phil's jacket.

Phil was fairly certain a deep sigh wasn't going to add anything beneficial to the moment. Neither would the impulse to wrap arms around him and murmur reassurances in the guys ear. Coulson felt his face get hot at the thought. Best to keep that to himself. It was definitely not the time to share that particular set of revelations. Instead he waited out Clint's distress and his own badly repressed urges.

Clint eventually fell asleep.

Phil watched him sleep for a few, then reached for his now cold coffee and warm sandwich. He tried to finish paper work and pretend he wasn't thinking unprofessional thoughts. It didn't really work. Phil could repress when he needed to but he was crap at outright lying to himself. He was going to do have to do something about this.

The afternoon wore on, into evening. Barton remained asleep. Phil watched him and tried to be productive. It mostly worked, sort of. Phil was an old hand at thinking about Clint with one part of his brain and cranking out paper work with the other. It was becoming painfully obvious he would have to _do something_ with the part of his brain he spent on Barton, instead of just thinking about it. If he didn't, Phil was eventually going screw up their working relationship and miss any chance he had. He had to decide if he was willing for that to happen.

 

A nurse came in a few times and checked on Barton, over the course of the evening. She made no move to ask Coulson to leave but sometime after midnight she silently inclined her head toward the other bed in the room. Phil looked at his charge and decided it would probably be okay.

He was damned tired and if anything happened he would be right there. He was not inclined to leave, at all.

Phil climbed onto the bed, feeling exhaustion settle over him the moment he was offered a chance to alleviate it. He stretched on top of the blanket not doing anything more complicated than kicking off his shoes ( no amount of exhaustion or trauma was going to get him to willing defy the Mom voice in his head “Phillip! Shoes!”)

As tired as he was it took a long time for Phil's eyes to close. Every small sound had him jerking awake and looking over at the other bed. Barton continued to sleep though, and for that Phil was deeply grateful.

Phil slept eventually. The day had been exhausting, in more ways than one.

 

It was almost immediately clear the next day that Hawkeye had improved, despite still being badly concussed. At least he seemed to be done crying. He was pissy though, snappish and annoyed, and refusing to meet Phil's eyes. It took Phil a while to figure out that the embarrassment Clint was feeling would be alleviated somewhat if Phil were not right there reminding him of how emotional he had been the day before. Phil tried not to take any of it personally.

When the Avengers showed up to check on their teammate and Barton agreed to see them, Phil waited until the room was full then slipped out unseen, leaving Barton in their care. Coulson knew the Avengers would watch out for Clint.

Phil went back to his office to finish his paper work, and think.

He thought about the way it felt to be the one Clint leaned on, the one he trusted. Phil thought about the things he'd felt for a while but had never verbalized. Phil concluded he needed Clint to know some important truths. Phil needed to know he hadn't chickened out.

He decided to give Clint some time to finish recovering, but not enough time to run away.

He needed to explain a few things to his favorite sniper. Just as soon as they could have a (semi) rational conversation without Barton battling a crippling headache or the urge to vomit. Phil knew he had time. It wasn't like Barton was going anywhere. And he couldn't hide from Phil indefinitely. Probably.

 

It turned out Phil Coulson wasn't the only one who had been playing it close to the chest. Which in retrospect probably shouldn't have been that much of a surprise, given Barton's own somewhat ...complex... romantic history. Clint had a few things to say himself.

Mostly “Me too. Does this mean you're buying me dinner? Or were you planning on skipping right to the mind-blowing sex?”

 

Phil did buy him dinner. Eventually.

___________________________________________________________________________________  
[Epilogue!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/389912) now included

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fulfill the "crying on each other" prompt of my [ ccbingo](http://ccbingo.livejournal.com/profile) non-sexual intimacy card.....and my undying love of cliche fic ;)


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